


Research on Trauma

by SALJStella



Category: Saw (Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, M/M, and he writes a lot about it, i write about him writing about it, i've taken minor parts of canon and just, post-bathroom, put it in a jar and shook it, so there's this nerd who wants to know stuff about the boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-04-16 23:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14176005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SALJStella/pseuds/SALJStella
Summary: "Faulkner and Gordon is a very strange pair, professor. I don’t know how much you remember of the interviews I showed you, but honestly, I couldn’t have found two people more different from each other if I tried. Their reactions to their trauma? Constantly differing from each other. Their reaction to the other one being the only confidant available? Same thing there, which made the conclusion of the project even more fascinating."





	1. Prologue: Bet You Thought the Day Would Never Come

To: Prof. Albert Flaubert ([aflaubert@harvard.edu](mailto:aflaubert@harvard.edu))  
From: Simon Landau ([simplysimon@gmail.com](mailto:simplysimon@gmail.com))  
Sent: July 13 2008 2:24:38 AM ESP  
Re: Bet you thought the day would never come?

Hello, professor. I hope you don’t check your emails during your holiday, but then again, if you don’t, my feeble attempt at a masterpiece of a research project will be pushed to the very bottom of your inbox. I assume you’re a very popular man. (At least as far as reading terrible essays go. I didn’t mean to insinuate that you have friends)

Of course, I’ve written an introduction included in the essay. I’m not an animal. But just in case you’re reading this over a pitcher of sangria and don’t remember all the many, many times I’ve discussed this project with you, I’ll refresh your memory.

This research project deals with relationships and trauma. More specifically, trauma and bonding. The research on traumatized individuals is plentiful, so the question I instead aimed to ask was: If one goes through something terrible _along_ with another person, how do they bond afterwards? Do they bond at all? Does the terrible thing bring them closer together, or is it a hotbed for mutual resentment?

I got my answer. Eventually. (I don’t need to remind you of all the times I pushed the deadline for this paper) My research objects were narrowed down to two people, and their trauma was in many ways unique. I spent just under a year interviewing two Jigsaw victims.

Adam Faulkner and Lawrence Gordon shared a trauma that, I dare say, they were alone in the world in experiencing. Their reaction to this isolation – in that there is none but the other with whom they could share the experience – is what I was after. And at first, I thought I would never be able to give a definite answer to that question. Whenever I thought I had it, either Faulkner or Gordon took another turn. It was frustrating as hell, and yet I don’t think I’ll ever enjoy any future project as much as I enjoyed this one.

Faulkner and Gordon is a _very_ strange pair, professor. I don’t know how much you remember of the interviews I showed you, but honestly, I couldn’t have found two people more different from each other if I tried. Their reactions to their trauma? Constantly differing from each other. Their reaction to the other one being the only confidant available? Same thing there, which made the conclusion of the project even more fascinating. I’m just saying, there’s a reason I kept pushing the deadline. Aside from being a lazy piece of shit.

In many ways, I still don’t consider this project to be over. Like, I got my hypothesis _kind of_ answered, and what I’m sending you here is… I guess a finished essay? But Faulkner and Gordon – as persons, not as research subjects – I could study until one of us dies. I’d say both separately and together, but honestly, I don’t think I’ll know them separately again. They’re conjoined. I know I’m giving away my own ending now, but there you go. Neither of them is going to let go of the other. I’m surer of that than I am of any of the other conclusions I make in the essay.

I actually sent each of them a copy of the essay before I wrote to you. I wanted to make sure that none of the details discussed in it were too intimate. Gordon sent me paragraphs about things I’d apparently gotten wrong about their medical statuses. Faulkner kept it short and sweet: “I refuse to believe we’re this lame. You make us out to be the fucking Titanic couple.”

I can’t disagree with him on that.

I hope you like it and you’re having a nice holiday. I’ll see you at the beginning of the semester. I’m off to sleep for about 11 days.

Yours truly,  
Simon Landau


	2. Introduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll just come right out with it: I haven't written an essay in about 7 years and English isn't my native language, so if essay structure is important to you, please do us both a favor and read something else. 
> 
> Also I obvs won't include everything that'd be in an essay like this simply because it'd be boring as shit and I have no patience

**1.1: Introduction**

The research has been narrowed down to two trauma survivors, Adam Faulkner and Lawrence Gordon. They suffered alongside each other in what could be considered torturous circumstances. They were kidnapped, drugged, and taken to a remote sewage facility. There, they woke up, shackled to the wall by their feet, each provided a hacksaw. They found a tape, explaining that in order for Gordon to survive, he had to kill Faulkner, saw off his own foot, and escape. If he didn’t follow through, his wife and daughter would also die. He was given six hours for this task. (This chain of events will henceforth be called “the trauma”)

Gordon eventually cut off his foot, and shot Faulkner. In the interim, his wife managed to overpower her captor and call the police, who managed to track the cell she’d called her husband on. Both of them, and their daughter, survived, and so did Faulkner. He was reunited with Gordon in the hospital the next day. As Gordon will state later in this essay, he “only stopped hugging [Faulkner] because he eventually wrestled out of my arms.”

Faulkner and Gordon had plenty of reason to resent one another. Faulkner had been shot, and, as Gordon learned when they were chained up, in the days prior, Faulkner had stalked him, taking pictures of him in an extramarital encounter. But it should also be considered that they had no one else but the other to relate to their experience. So, both having survived, how would they relate to each other? Would they at all? And, despite their trauma being so unique, can the way in which they related to each other be applied to other trauma victims?

The author has followed Faulkner and Gordon for close to a year to have these questions answered.

 

xxxxxxxx

 

The hypothesis of the research is that undergoing heavy trauma alongside another person doesn’t draw the traumatized closer together, as much as strengthen their other relationships. In order to answer that, it must be examined what the research subjects’ ability was to connect with people around them pre trauma.

Four witnesses have been questioned in this factor. It has been pivotal for the final analysis to have this question answered; what were the notable behavioral differences between Faulkner/Gordon respectively, pre trauma versus post trauma? (Interviews enclosed, see appendix 1:1-3)

A variable to be to be considered while viewing this data is the inequality in witnesses to speak for Faulkner, as opposed to Gordon. All witnesses are people considered close to the subjects pre trauma, and Faulkner simply did not have that. The only person one could consider close to him is Gordon, whom he knows post trauma.

**Appendix 1:1 – Email sent from Alison Samberg (formerly Gordon) to the author,  8/11/06**

_(Full questionnaire interviewees were presented with enclosed, see appendix 2:2)_

I hope you understand that I’m sending this hoping you’ll finally leave me alone. I have nothing else to say about Larry or what his deal is with his boy toy. I really hope you’re not actually a scientist yet, because you’re obviously terrible at collecting data. The data here being how I’ve explicitly told you to stop calling me and you haven’t seemed to care.

What is it even you’re researching? If the bathroom changed Larry? What the fuck else would it do? Not even he could keep pretending like everything was fine after that, but don’t think he didn’t try. That’s actually when I really knew there was no going back to us. Larry had been pretending everything was fine for as long as we’ve been married. When he couldn’t even do that, there was nothing left for him in our marriage. He couldn’t lie to himself anymore, let alone to me.

I’ll do my best to answer your questions, with the hope that you’ll back off when I do. If not, I’ll make sure your university knows you’re willing to harass a traumatized woman and her daughter in hope of getting famous in your field. 

  1. I’ve known Lawrence for 23 years, we’ve been married for 22 of them. Honestly, he was more or less the same in college. So charming when he wanted to be, but honestly, I don’t think he was a big fan of people who weren’t under anesthesia. After we got married, he didn’t really have friends, unless you consider his mistresses friends. I thought about it sometimes. I know he had a way with patients, he could calm any of them down, no matter how nervous they were about an upcoming surgery. But he never used that charisma to form any real relationships. I tried to get him to see a therapist while I was pregnant, and he just looked at me like I was nuts.


  1. Lawrence based his identity on his profession before the bathroom. I don’t know how much that has changed now, I barely got to know the man he became afterwards. He spent as much time as he could at the hospital, and he was miserable and twitchy when he spent time with me. He loved it when he had time for Diana. He was a great father. And as I was told at the many, many, boring dinner parties with the shareholders of the hospital, he was a great doctor. Hell, our college professors wouldn’t stop telling me what a great student he was. He was great at everything except for being a husband.


  1. I can’t tell you how he connected to others after the bathroom. He sure as hell didn’t do it with me, that’s all I know. I probably have part in that. I truly believe John Kramer didn’t care if any of us victims learned our “lessons” or not, but either way, I learned mine. Larry was a wreck after he got home. He drank, he picked up smoking again. I made sure he was sober a few days a week to spend with Diana, but that’s all I invested in him from then on. I was so happy he survived, but it wasn’t for my sake. I wanted Diana to have her father, but I wasn’t about to spend another second with him unless I had to. I was relieved when he told me about the affair.


  1. How the fuck am I supposed to know that? My answer to the second question should make it clear that I didn’t _know_ Larry before it happened. How am I supposed to know who he was afterwards? He had Adam afterwards. He didn’t need me anymore, not even as an alibi. Or a beard, if you prefer that term.



As for the questions you wanted me to pass on to Diana, she’s not ever going to see them or anything else you try to impose on her. She’s a goddamn child who’s doing her best to heal. You know the press somehow got a hold of her phone number? She’s being hounded by tabloid journalists and as far as I’m concerned, you’re no better than any of them. I don’t care what pretense of “academic value” you see in exploiting our pain.

Never contact me again.

 

**Appendix 2:1 – Email sent from Dr. Julian Maylee, M.D, to the author, 8/8/06**

Dear Mr. Landau,

Thank you for your Email. Lawrence told me you might get in touch. Your project sounds important. I’ll do my best to answer your questions to my best ability.

  1. I’ve worked with Lawrence for roughly eight years, mostly with him consulting me on certain patients. I know a lot about brains, you see. He was one of the few surgeons I’ve met whose intelligence matches my own, and we had plenty of very stimulating conversations.  
I’m not sure “connect” is the right way to describe Lawrence’s interactions with other people. I think he saw the world more like a fish tank, and he wasn’t one of the fish. He was the one observing them. I think he got pleasure out of that, the same way he got pleasure out of his job, but it’s no way to create relationships. Neither observing others nor cutting them open. I’m not sure he understood that and simply didn’t care, or he just never understood. Both are a possibility.  
  

  2. I guess you’ve had plenty of people tell you what a great surgeon he was, you don’t need me reminding you. He was sort of worn in by the time I met him. Most doctors get jaded with time, for which I am grateful, possibly because I’m one of them. Put a daisy-fresh intern in front of me and I’ll scare them straight, but I didn’t have to do that with Lawrence.  
  
There was a sadness to him, though. That’s not really uncommon with doctors, either, but seeing it in such a brilliant man worried me. Knowledge can be a burden, and it certainly was with Lawrence. It wasn’t just that he’d seen too much, he’d seen terrible things and he understood why they happened. That’s the kind of thing that plants self-blame. And he certainly did that. I think that’s why he buried himself in work, and I’m sure it’s why he based so much of his self-perception on it.  
I’ve said that Lawrence was worn-in by the time we started working together, but I’ll tell you this: Without having known him then, I know – I’m 100% certain – that in med school, Lawrence was one of those students who trapped himself in storage closets and cried whenever he got the chance. He handles pressure better than most; it wasn’t because he was scared. It was just because when he failed, he never let go of it. He carries the sum of his failures with him. He probably always will.  
  

  3. If you’ve talked to Alison, she’ll probably tell you that Lawrence cut other people out completely after the tragedy. That’s not true. I have no doubt he cut her out, but that was unavoidable. They had a pattern of hurting each other. Lawrence had his sick leave, he was still a bit of a wreck when he came back. But other people weren’t the problem.  
  
Mr. Landau, my niece recently shared something she’d read on the internet a few days back. Since you’re young, I assume you’ve already seen it, but I’ll repeat it anyway: “if your boyfriend is your best friend, you’re doing it right. If your boyfriend is your only friend, you’re doing it wrong.” (She keeps strengthening my belief that the next generation will save the world) I think that was the reason it didn’t work out between Alison and Lawrence. They were each other’s only friends. Adam and Lawrence are best friends. And I’ve seen him form more meaningful relationships in this past year than he did in all the years he was married. He asked me to have dinner with him a few weeks back! DINNER! As in, outside the hospital! I’m pretty sure we’ve been friends for eight years, but that’s never happened before. I have no doubt he’s going to stay on this path.  
  

  4. I’m not exaggerating that he was a wreck after his leave. He came very close to losing his job, since he showed up drunk more than once. It was as if he dragged the darkness from that bathroom with him wherever he went. I’m sad to say I probably didn’t help. I know a lot about brains, but whatever was going on in his was beyond me.



It wasn’t beyond Adam, though. I keep asking myself; was it a good thing, what happened to them? I don’t doubt that Kramer killed certain parts of them, still rotting away in that bathroom, that they will never have back. That is tragic, of course. But the way Lawrence is now, I can’t help feeling like he’s still better off. He’s happy now, truly happy, and he probably never would be if he’d kept living the way he did before it happened. I hope your research will answer that for me.

Let me know if I can further assist you in your project.

Yours truly,

Dr. Julian Maylee, M.D.

 

xxxxxxxxx

 

**Appendix 1:3 – Transcript of audio recorded interview with Jeremy Lidman (JL), 8/25/06, at Another Bar in the Village, Greenwich Village, NY**

Interviewer (I): Would you please state your name for the record?

JL: Jeremy Lidman, thirty-two years old, New York resident. You want my social security number?

I: Have you understood the interview questionnaire, as presented to you before the recording?

JL: Yup.

I: My first question is how you came to know Adam Faulkner, and when you first met.

JL: I don’t know, man… like, we have a lot of regulars. He started coming here when he moved into his place, you know, that dump on the next block. Must’ve been four, five years ago.

I: So you know him as a regular at this bar? 

JL: Yeah.

I: At which you're employed? 

JL: Yeah.

I: How did you perceive him as a person, before he went through Jigsaw’s trap? What was he like?

JL: It’s not like we were besties or something. He just came through, had some shots when he could afford them. What kind of regulars you think we get at a place like this?

I: Anything you could tell me would be helpful.

JL: They’re not happy go lucky. He wasn’t either. Whenever we talked, like, when there was a slow night and I had some time, he always seemed kind of… you know. Anxious.

I: How so?

JL: I think it was his line of work. It wasn’t a way to make friends, you know? He always seemed to be looking over his shoulder for something.

I: How did you perceive his ability to connect with others?

JL: (Laughs) You don’t need me to tell you that, man. Let me guess, I was the closest thing to a friend of his you could find to ask about this shit?

I: Yes.

JL: There’s your answer. He just didn’t. Like, there were times I saw him chatting up a girl. Sometimes he took her home, sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he got into fights. But I never saw him talk to the same person twice. There are plenty of other miserable fuckers coming through here just as much as he did, he had every opportunity to get to know them. I don’t know if he didn’t care, or he was scared they knew any of those dudes who were after him… either way, he kept to himself.

I: You know about the trauma Adam Faulkner went through April 3rd, 2005. What changes did you notice in him after it happened?

JL: You’re asking the wrong person, dude. That’s when he stopped showing up.

I: All together?

JL: More or less. I gotta tell you… whenever a regular just seems to… fucking dissolve into thin air, one of two things have happened: they started AA, or they offed themselves. And we all knew what’d happened to Adam, so… you can imagine what we thought.

I: But you know now what really happened?

JL: I met him once. Must’ve been a few months after it happened. Thought of doing a home visit, but we’re not fucking married. I was coming to open the place up, heard someone say my name, and there he was. Looked a little pale, but other than that…

I: Did you talk to him?

JL: I asked how he was, with the… honestly, I was surprised. I told him; ‘whenever you’re having a down phase, you’ll stay here until I have to drag your ass out. And now some fucker shot you and left you rotting in some goddamn bathroom, and that’s when you get sober?’

I: What did he say?

JL: He said something about how booze only makes him more miserable now days. That’s bullshit. I’ve seen that boy miserable, really miserable. Never stopped him from getting drunk. I asked: ‘you’re fucking with me. What happened?’ and I couldn’t get a straight answer. Just seemed like he wasn’t feeling it anymore. But when we said bye and he left, I wasn’t worried about him. I was sure he wasn’t going to kill himself. 

I: How could you be sure?

JL: There was something about… like, sure, it was obvious he’d gone through some shit, and was still going through it, but… I don’t know. He didn’t need the bottle anymore. That’s all I got from it.

I: Did you have any idea why?

JL: I didn’t at the time. But I’ve seen them since then.

I: Who?

JL: Him and the other guy. The doctor.


	3. Data

They stop calling after a while. Adam doesn’t miss them. He milked the publicity as long as he could; he couldn’t do any real work for a few months after it happened, and even the seediest, most bottom-of-the-barrel talk shows and web series usually had the decency of shelling out a few bucks for an interview.

They’d have to, if he’d say yes to them. Who knew almost dying was all it took to get a steady income?

“I went to college,” he’d said to Lawrence. One of those nights when the drinks just kept coming. “You know? I’m good at this shit. He… he just saw what I did with it. He didn’t know… that I had ambitions. Because I did!”

Lawrence stared blankly in front of him. Booze made him quiet, in that solemn and deeply depressed away, and that was probably why Adam wouldn’t shut up when they had these nights together.

“If that’s all he wanted, for me to… _do_ shit, it wouldn’t have mattered what fucking scumbag I snapped pictures of,” Adam went on, though Lawrence had shown no sign of listening. “He wanted me to do shit that I _liked,_ and that’s… that’s what I’m not onboard with, y’know? Who in the fuck makes a living doing stuff they _like_ doing?”

Lawrence still didn’t say anything, and Adam had run out even of bullshit to spout. He lit another cigarette, and after an absurdly long pause, Lawrence spoke up.

“He didn’t care what you did. About your pictures. He didn’t care about any of that. He just wanted us to hurt.”

Adam didn’t have anything to say to that, not even when he was hammered. They both fell into silence.

It’s insane how much time they can spend talking about Jigsaw without ever mentioning his name. Adam’s convinced that’s the way it’s going to stay, though. With as much space the dude already takes up in their lives, he doesn’t deserve any in their vocabulary.

If Adam can help it, he doesn’t even mention his name in interviews. Those kids with their subpar video cameras and morbid fascination with violence do it often enough to make up for it. _Why do you think Jigsaw chose you, Adam? Did you think you were going to make it out of that bathroom Jigsaw put you in? Are you afraid Jigsaw is going to come after you again, Adam?_

Adam answered every single one. He probably sounded somewhat steady when he did. But he drank so much when he got back home, he didn’t know what day it was when he woke up, with vomit down his shirt and a stranger next to him.

His novelty’s worn off now. The calls are less frequent, but even if they weren’t, he wouldn’t know how to handle the voice on the other end of the line.

“Hello, is this Adam Faulkner? Please say yes.”

Adam furrows his brows. He’s heard every version of this pitch. There’s the sweaty teenager sounding like he’s about to jizz himself asking if he’s talking to _the Jigsaw guy,_ there’s the TV producer whose plastic smile can be heard through the phone. He can’t place the current voice in his ear. It sounds frazzled, like the bearer is sitting behind a cramped desk, trying to find Adam’s information amongst stacks of papers, but still oddly personal. Almost genuine.

“Yeah,” Adam says eventually.

“Thank god. I’ve been nervous about this call all day, I wouldn’t’ve handled having to make it again.”

There’s a crackle through the receiver, like a sigh of relief. Adam feels his defenses rising back up. This is _too_ inoffensive, too close to a ‘lovable goofball’ act.

“And you are?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m Simon Landau, sir. I’m with the psychology department of Harvard University. I was wondering… I’m doing a study on trauma bonding. I was wondering if you were willing to answer a few questions?”

Adam feels his lips tightening. He shouldn’t be this annoyed at someone obviously three years younger than him, at most, calling him ‘sir,’ but it was easier to deal with than the rest of that sentence. He didn’t need to wreck his mind to figure out why someone _studying trauma_ would contact him.

“What kind of questions?” Adam says. He thinks he sounded kind of neutral, but when the kid speaks up, he sounds even more unnerved.

“It-it’s for my finals. We’re supposed to…” There’s a rustle of papers in the background, followed by the kid clearly quoting something he’s got in front of him: “’Study a psychologically unique case and apply its findings onto a broader demographic.’”

Adam is silent. The caller sighs again.

“We’re supposed to find someone who’s gone through something… like, unique, uncommon, and say ‘hey, does the way this dude reacted to this unique thing say something about how other people would react, to other, not-unique things?’ And then we do a paper on it, and then we submit it, and then we go out with our friends and get hammered. You know. College.”

Adam leans his head back. He could hang up. He kind of wants to.

“I can sort of guess what _unique_ thing you’d want to ask me about,” he ends up saying.

“Yeah.” Simon’s tone is apologetic. “And look, if you don’t want to have that talk, that’s fine. I get it. I wouldn’t want to, either. But… I just wanted to… you know, turn every stone.”

Adam falls quiet again. He doesn’t have to say yes, he doesn’t have to give this kid the time of day. He can tell that this isn’t the type of guy who’s going to be a dick about it, to hassle Adam until he has to block his number. If Adam says no now, that will be the end of it.

Simon seems encouraged by the fact that he hasn’t yet, though.

“You don’t have to decide anything now,” he says eventually. “I could… if you want, I can email you my thesis. Just so you’d know what I want from you. But as I said, if you don’t want to talk about it…”

In hindsight, he’s being so nice that Adam almost would’ve had reason to be suspicious. But for some reason, he ends up giving Simon his email, promising he’ll look through his thesis. He doesn’t have anything better to do, after all.

xxxxxxxxx

Adam wakes up alone, a few weeks after the phone call. Sleep is rare, so he’s grateful for that part, but that’s about it. Every time he does fall asleep, he wishes he didn’t. He reaches for the cigarettes on the nightstand, trying to ignore the tremble in his hand.

Eventually, he might have to talk with someone about this. It’s not something he’s going to prioritize, though. Adam lights a cigarette, not caring about the flammability of his mattress, _(what’s gonna happen to you that hasn’t already happened)_ looking, unseeing, at the streetlight outside the window.

Eventually he just might make that call.

His thumb has hovered over the call button on Lawrence’s name on his phone more times than he can count or cares to remember, and still they’ve never gotten together without being hammered. Adam was discharged from the hospital before Lawrence, and Lawrence was adamant that he didn’t leave without his number. He grabbed the phone right out of Adam’s hand to type it in, despite Adam’s weak-ass protests.

“Now, just because I’m crippled doesn’t it mean I won’t make house calls if I don’t hear from you,” Lawrence said jokingly, but with a hint of the doctor voice Adam had already learned to hate. “I’ll be out of here eventually. And when I do, I’m going to find you.”

Adam had sort of wanted him to make good on that threat. He didn’t know why he himself made it so hard for Lawrence to find him.

He didn’t answer the phone when Lawrence’s name was on the display. He didn’t open the door when the bell rang, though that could sort of be blamed on simple paranoia. They meet on Adam’s terms. And those terms are that sometimes, Lawrence just sort of… is in his apartment, probably due to Adam calling him when he’s too out of it to know what he’s doing. Lawrence would start drinking, too, probably because he wants to make sure there’s less for Adam.

And so, another night can be forgotten, and Adam can continue to push away the only other person in the world that knows what he’s going through.

Makes fucking sense.

Adam doesn’t know why that’s the thought that makes him get out of bed, stumble to the living room and start up the sometimes-working laptop on his coffee table. But before he has the time to ask himself any of the difficult questions, he’s found that email that the grad student guy sent him, with his number at the bottom of it.

The signals going through are so many that Adam is about to give up. He doesn’t really get why, until he glances at the time, reading 3:02 AM. It’s hard to make those connections when you don’t ever go to bed. When the kid finally picks up, his voice is raspy with the remains of sleep.

“For the last time, Eric, I’m not the one playing the fucking music. Stop calling.”

Adam snorts, despite himself.

“I’ll tell Eric if I see him.”

There’s a pause. Adam’s not sure if it’s too early for jokes, or he just can’t deliver them anymore. Both are a possibility.

“It’s Adam. Faulkner. You called me… a while ago.”

“Oh!” Simon clears his throat, clearly trying to find his chipper phone voice and not really succeeding. “Shit, sorry about…”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s… some guy in my dorm has just been dumped. He’s been on a bender for, like, four days now, and tonight must’ve been really bad, cause he just started _blasting_ this weird Russian folk music.”

Adam barks out a laugh. The sound surprises even him. It’s been forever… Simon chuckles tiredly, too. Adam is pretty sure he hears an off tambourine beat in the background through his phone, but that might just be in his head.

“The guy I thought was calling thinks it’s me playing it, just because I’m the weird one.” He sighs. “Anyway. How can I help you?”

Adam rubs his forehead. He wishes he had an answer for that. At least one he could understand himself.

“You can interview me for your thing. If you still want.”

There’s another pause. Adam almost thinks Simon suspects he’s fucking with him.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I… have a lot of free time, so I can meet up whenever. Just give a time and place.”

“Wow.”

Simon still sounds legitimately skeptical, and Adam almost gets annoyed.

“Unless you’ve found a better train wreck?”

“No, no!” Adam hears the rustle of Simon wrestling out of his sheets. “Listen, I’ll probably have to sleep tomorrow away, due to the… folk music situation. But the day after, can we meet up?”

He names a place, and Adam agrees. He finishes his cigarette, not thinking much of it. Truth is, he’s just happy he’ll get to talk to another person, at least without that person being a glaring reminder of the second chance he somehow got, without making anything of it.

xxxxxxxxx

**Appendix 3:1 – transcript of excerpt of audio recorded interview between Adam Faulkner (AF) and interviewer Simon Landau (I) 9/25/06, at Starbucks, 23 rd Maple st, Greenwich Village, New York**

I: Look, Mr. Faulkner… I actually had a bit of a questionnaire of things I wanted to ask you, but… I’ll be honest; I feel like that’s not really the best way to get you to talk.

AF: About the stuff _you_ want me to talk about? Yeah, probably not.

I: So I have your permission to go off-script?

AF: Sure.

I: My research concerns how you’re able to connect with other people after the trauma you underwent on April 3rd, 2005.

AF: This is you going off script?

I: In order to research that, I need to know of your ability and willingness to connect with others _before_ the trauma. So… what were you like? Before the trap, did you meet a lot of people? How was your social life?

AF: (after a lengthy pause) Poor.

I: Any romantic relationships?

(Faulkner scoffs)

I: What about your family?

AF: You know… mom. Absentee dad. Two brothers. One dead.

I: And do you… talk to them?

AF: Not really.

I: When did you last talk to them? Before… the trap?

AF: Must’ve been… a year. Year and a half.

I: What about after? After you were held captive, did you get in touch?

(Drawn out pause)

AF: I think my brother showed up at the hospital. I’m not really sure, I was pretty out of it. Mom called a few times. But… I don’t know. (Pause) I guess I’m not all that social.

I: Mr. Faulkner, I gotta tell you… it sounds like there’s no real difference to how you formed relationships before the trap and after it.

(Note from interviewer: though not visible on the recording, Faulkner smiles rather grimly during this pause)

AF: Now, that’s not true. I think I’m much more of a recluse now than before.

I: Mr Faulkner, do you…

AF: Stop fucking calling me that.

I: I’m sorry. Adam, do you have any relationships that have survived the trauma you went through? You make it sound like it didn’t change you at all, which I have a hard time believing. No matter how miserable you were before.

AF: I guess there’s Lawrence.

I: Who’s Lawrence?

AF: Gordon.

I: You mean… the other Jigsaw victim?

AF: Yeah. We… hang out sometimes, I guess. I didn’t know him before the thing happened. I guess you can call that a change.

I: Would you consider him a friend?

AF: Not really. I only see him when I’m wasted.

I: But you have… semi-regular contact with him?

AF: You look like you’re about to cream your pants, dude. Is this _important data_ or whatever the fuck you people call it?

I: The fact that the only other person you seem to hang out with is the other person you were in that bathroom with, yes, it’s pretty important data.

AF: Glad to be of service.

I: Adam, seriously. I want to know how you socially responded to a serious trauma. What you’re telling me is basically that you had no social life before the trauma, and after it happened…

AF: Now hang on just one fucking second, Mr. Science Man. If you’re going to make your case about how this psycho somehow _helped_ me, I’m out of here, okay?

I: I… I’m sorry.

AF: Yeah, I had no friends before all this shit happened. Now I have one friend. One entire friend, who I’m doing my best to drive away, and who’s also fucked in the head from what happened to us. It’s not a fucking _gift._ He’s just the one person who knows what I went through.

I: I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry.

AF: Good.

(Pause)

I: It’s just… that’s a whole different case. I just wanted to research _you_ and how all this affected your relationships _._ But… honestly, I never even considered the possibility that you’d have any sort of contact with Gordon after you got out of there.

AF: Well. I aim to fucking please.

I: Do you have a way for me to get in touch with him?

xxxxxxxx

To: prof. Albert Flaubert ([aflaubert@harvard.edu](mailto:aflaubert@harvard.edu))   
From: Simon Landau ([simplysimon@gmail.com](mailto:simplysimon@gmail.com))  
Sent: 10/25/06 04:33:54 AM ESP  
Subject: Change of plans

Dear professor,

So, I had my first interview with Adam Faulkner today. And honestly… stuff happened, and I’m going to have to rethink this entire thing I was doing.

I’m sorry, I know you already think I’m flakey as hell, but here’s what happened: at first, Faulkner basically told me that he had no friends, no close relationships, before he went through the trap, or after. Meaning that just researching his ability to bond pre- versus post-trauma would be boring as hell; that ability was non-existent then, and it basically is non-existent now.

But then he told me that after it happened, he’s formed some kind of bond with the other guy who was in there with him, Lawrence Gordon.

Tell me how that’s not just… BEGGING to be analyzed???

So. I know you’ve listened to me ramble endlessly about how badly I wanted to research one messed up dude and his posttraumatic relationships, but honestly? I can’t NOT include Gordon in this project. Faulkner gave me his number, and I’ll call him tomorrow. If he agrees to be interviewed, I’m going to do it. Which means my hypothesis needs to be changed, and you can yell at me about that at our next tutor session. I don’t care. I’m too much of a nerd to not do this.

I’m awaiting your disgruntled reply.

Much love,

Simon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of based Simon on MCU's Peter Parker. Sssh.


	4. Analysis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a callback to Rebirth (to you youngians, it's the first official Chainshipping fanfic. way back in the ff.net days) in this chapter. See if you can find it!

Getting out of bed is always the hardest part. Lawrence somehow manages to forget about the foot through the night, at least if he does fall asleep. And then there’s the process. Sitting up. Putting both feet on the floor, feeling the uneven weight distribution he puts on them and, right. There’s that.

It’s like only one of them belongs to him now.

The first few weeks after he got out, he simply solved it by not getting out of bed. That impulse is probably not going anywhere, but following through with it isn’t an option anymore, so Lawrence fumbles for his cane and stands up.

He does manage to hold down a job now days, at least. Weird how something that used to be his reason for living is more of a cliff note now. Lawrence is a company doctor, only working office hours. He hasn’t looked at his pager once in the past year. He’s obviously not as loaded as he used to be, but he’s making ends meet, and more importantly, he’s spending more time Diana than he ever did when he was married to her mother.

Overall, things are… fine. They’re good. That’s about it.

Lawrence slowly makes way to the kitchen, the _click_ of the cane against hardwood floors accompanying him.

Things are fine, he just hates this fucking limp.

Then there’s a noise that Lawrence doesn’t even recognize at first. Now that he’s not the first one they call when someone jumps in front of a train, he rarely gets called at all. He’d forgotten what his cell phone sounded like.

Lawrence curses as he slowly maneuvers his idiot, useless body back to the bedroom. His phone is on the nightstand, then on the floor, before he can finally pick it up.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this mister – I mean, is it doctor Gordon?”

xxxxxxxxx

Adam is called just a few minutes after Lawrence picks up his phone. The caller ID doesn’t recognize the number, so he answers with hesitation. That usually means it’s another one of the web shows.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Adam.”

Adam’s stomach drops.

Lawrence.

“Hey… hey man. How’s everything?”

“Well…” There’s a tone to Lawrence’s voice Adam’s not sure he recognizes. “I just got a pretty interesting call.”

Adam runs a defeated hand down his face.

“Oh.”

“Exactly.”

“Listen…” Adam sighs. “If you don’t want to talk to him… he’s not weird about it. Just tell him off, it’s fine. I know he sounds like he’s, like, twelve, but he can handle it.”

“It’s not that,” Lawrence says coldly. “Adam…”

He quiets down. When he speaks up again, he sounds so absolutely defeated that Adam just wants him to shut up.

“This is so weird. Any new nurse coming in asks me about it the second I introduce myself. Diana had to switch schools to get people to stop asking her about it, and now I’m getting phone calls from some hung over grad student who wants to talk to me about you, about the… what happened. No one else seems to have lived this shit down, and still, _you_ don’t want to talk about it unless I call from a number you don’t recognize.”

Lawrence gets gradually worse at hiding his anger the longer he’s talking, and towards the end, Adam is pretty certain there’s not a human on earth more disgusting than himself. He sinks down on the couch, pulling at his hair. His throat is burning with shame.

“Well…” he says eventually, failing miserably at making it sound like he’s joking. “The whole reason we even met is that I stalked you. I don’t know where you’re getting this idea that I’m friend material.”

Adam has no idea why he’s saying this. Probably goes right along with why he doesn’t call Lawrence in the first place.

Lawrence sighs. It crackles in the receiver.

“Are you going to talk to him?” Adam asks eventually.

“I don’t know. Are you?”

“I think so.”

They’re quiet for a bit. There’s so much unsaid lingering between them, Adam’s not even sure where to start.

_I’m sorry I’m leaving you alone in all this._

_I’m sorry any of this has happened to us._

_I’m sorry I fuck everything up._

“When I last talked to Simon…” Adam ends up saying, not sure where he’s going with this, “he fucking lost it when I said that… we meet up on occasion.”

“Okay,” Lawrence says, with a hint of skepticism, like he’s not going to trust whatever Adam says next.

“It seems to have _scientific value_. So, he’s probably going to want to talk to both of us.”

Lawrence is quiet for a bit. It’s like he’s searching Adam’s words for something, and even though Adam’s not sure what it is, he’s depressingly convinced Lawrence isn’t going to find it.

“I’m supposed to get back to _Simon_ tomorrow,” Lawrence ends up saying, somehow making Simon’s name sound like the stupidest part of all of this. “But… can we please meet up later? No matter what I tell him, I mean.”

Everything in Adam’s head is positively screaming for him to say no. But listening to that hasn’t gotten him very far.

“Sure,” he says.

xxxxxxxxx

 **Appendix 3:2** **–** **transcript of excerpt of audio recorded interview between Dr. Lawrence Gordon (LG) and interviewer Simon Landau (I) 10/2/06, at Virtually This news department, southwest Manhattan, New York**

I: I have some questions about your family.

LG: Okay.

I: Since the trap, you and your wife have separated.

LG: That’s right.

I: I understand you won’t want to go into detail here, but… could you tell me a little bit about why that came to happen?

LG: Well. I wasn’t the best husband before it happened, so…

I: I understand, but I’d still like to know how the bathroom changed your marriage. Or, you as a husband.

LG: I don’t know. Alison thought I worked too much before… that. Afterwards, I didn’t work at all. When I did, it turned out that I was shit at that, too, which didn’t exactly make me a joy to be around.

I: Are you referring to the drinking?

LG: The drinking, the night terrors... the fact that I couldn’t be around bone saws anymore, which is kind of crucial if you’re a surgeon.

I: If you don’t mind me saying… Alison was also traumatized. This could’ve been something that brought you together.

LG: Of course it could. It just didn’t.

I: Why not?

(Pause)

LG: It was probably for the best. If we can work things out, that’s great, but… I’m not holding my breath.

I: Why do you think that?

LG: We’re not right for each other.

I: Forgive me, but… I understand you’d suffered marital problems for years before you were put in the bathroom. You didn’t separate until afterwards. This insight that you and Alison aren’t right for each other, is that something you would’ve come to if you hadn’t been subjected to the trap?

LG: I have no idea. And honestly, I would’ve been fine being stuck in a shitty marriage if I hadn’t had to lose my fucking foot.

I: I understand that, I just…

LG: If you start spouting some bullshit about what I was supposed to _learn_ from this, I swear to god…

I: Doctor Gordon, I understand all that, and I’m begging you not to yell at me, cause, like, I’m really trying to be professional here, but I also cry very easily, so… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.

LG: Okay.

I: If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you another question.

LG: Fine.

I: You know I got your information from Adam Faulkner, who’s also a subject in this report. Could you tell me a little bit about your relationship?

LG: There’s not much to tell. He just calls me when he’s drunk.

I: I somehow doubt that’s the extent of it.

LG: Really.

I: You both suffered at each other’s hands. He’s the only one who fully understands what you’ve been through. There’s no way he’s just another dude on the street to you.

LG: Of course he’s not. We just don’t… (Pause) I don’t know. I think he resents me. I wouldn’t really blame him if he did.

I: And how do you feel about him?

(Lengthy pause)

LG: I consider him a friend. Probably one of the better ones I got left. But… I don’t know. He makes you work for it.

I: If it helps, I think that’s what literally everyone would say about him.

LG: Well. I’m the only one who’s shot him.

xxxxxxxxx

“Fucking Christ…” Adam moans to himself, his damp forehead sliding off the toilet seat as he collapses on the bathroom floor.

It’s so cold. He’s so cold, his teeth are chattering like in a fucking cartoon. Adam reaches up to flush the toilet and remains sitting by it, burying his face in his hands.

If he put any thought into it, he could’ve figured out why he keeps getting sick. Not eating, constantly smoking. Dehydration. He doesn’t want to put that thought into anything, though, so he doesn’t.

It might’ve helped if he slept.

Adam knows he has a pill bottle, somewhere in the back of the bathroom cabinet. The last time he got decked in a bar fight, he let it slip that this was the fifth night in a row he’d been out drinking, and the doctor who stitched up his eyebrow refused to let him leave without it.

Maybe he recognized Adam from the news. Maybe he just recognized the look in his eyes. It doesn’t matter, because Adam only took a pill one night. He slept for a total of three hours, and he doesn’t remember what the nightmares were about, just that he spent the next two days in his closet. Whatever was in his dreams weren’t supposed to find him in there.

Adam remains on the floor for a bit. Could be minutes, or hours, really, but it doesn’t matter. Then he drags himself off the floor and drinks a few mouthfuls of water from the bathroom faucet, as some scrap of self-perseverance is apparently still left in him. His stomach does that uncomfortable sloshy thing it does when you drink on an empty stomach, so Adam goes into the kitchen.

The fridge is obviously empty. Adam isn’t sure what he expected. He opens the cupboards, one by one, and eventually finds a jar of peanut butter, which he mindlessly opens and digs out a spoonful of. He feels his insides jolt at the sensation when he swallows, like it’s completely foreign.

Sleep. Water. Food. He can’t do any of those things anymore. They weren’t a priority before, and now they’re apparently a fucking hardship. He can’t even get the very basics down. How is he supposed to do anything else? To actually _live?_

Adam stares into the jar of peanut butter.

There are moments when the reality of it all sweeps in, like a cloud of smoke billowing through his apartment, swallowing him whole. That this is it.

He was shot for this. He almost died for this. Lawrence almost died for this.

For him to live. Keep wasting away, dragging this shitty fucking existence forward.

Adam puts the peanut butter on the counter and opens the freezer. His movements are stiff and jittery, there’s blind panic prodding at his senses. He does his best to stave it off, at least until he manages to get the lid off the vodka bottle and put it to his lips. The warmth spreading in his blood as he swallows is a purely chemical reaction, it can’t replace actual calm or even somewhat steady breathing.

It doesn’t even really help. He knows that. But nothing else does, either.

Adam dropped acid some time after he was rescued. There was no particular reason for it, just that it was offered to him and he‘s stopped saying no to any kind of illegal substance. He was fine for a while, but then he started seeing his flesh falling off. He was rotting, inside out, there would be nothing of him left, but he knew, even then, that there was not much of him to begin with.

Adam takes another swig from the bottle, it‘s shaking, the rim is clattering against his teeth.

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

He lived, but it doesn’t matter.

The vodka gets to him even quicker than it would before. He built up a bit of an alcohol tolerance through nothing but stubbornness, he‘s always drunk way more than he should considering his size. But then he lost even more weight, and moved on to the harder stuff.

It‘s getting to him now. Which is just as well. He needs it to. Adam stumbles, even though he hasn’t taken a step, and sits down on the floor.

Why does he do this. He keeps standing up, even though he‘s never had any reason to. Why doesn’t he just lie down and stay down?

When those cops busted through the steel door, the merciless sting of the fluorescent lights, the thunder of the boots running across the floor, towards him.

Was he happy when they came for him? The buzz saw they brought for the chain, faceless men with helmets and goggles hovering over him, pinning him down. He was thrashing, to the drilling sound of the buzz saw, with the sustainable risk of losing his foot. The irony.

Was he happy? Was he grateful? He can‘t remember. He can‘t imagine he was.

Adam leans his head back. This stream of vodka dribbles down his chin. He has no concept of aiming anymore, but at least some of it gets in his mouth.

He probably hated it. He must‘ve hated the SWAT team, hated their buzz saw, hated Lawrence for sending them for him, simply because that’s what he does. He hates it all. Even if they came to help him, he hated them still. Hell, he hates them _now,_ to this day.

Anyone who saved him, he hates. They‘re the reason he‘s still here. They put him on this floor, just as much as he did himself. They got him out, even though he has no reason to _be_ out. There‘s nothing keeping him here.

xxxxxxxxx

The rest is just brief little glimpses.

Adam is half aware of being dragged across the floor. There‘s a jolt of panic running through him, some kind of remain of the bathroom still left, but it‘s not enough to get him mobile.

He has no choice but to go along.

xxxxxxxxx

Next glimpse is of a glass of water being placed on the coffee table.

Adam knows he‘s very thirsty, but he can‘t lift his head. He passes out again.

xxxxxxxxx

His head is throbbing. Adam is absolutely cold with despair. He‘s awake but he doesn’t want to be, he‘s shivering again, he’s freezing to the bone and in so much pain.

“It‘s okay,” Lawrence says, propping his head up. “Here. Drink.”

Adam swallows the liquid running in his mouth. It eases his headache a tiny bit, his tongue feels less papery.

Lawrence‘s calm is like another blanket around him. Adam‘s shivers die down. He goes back to sleep.

xxxxxxxxx

He does come back to himself. It hurts, just like every time he has to land in his own body. If only he had somewhere else to go.

He slowly blinks at the intrusive, prickling sunlight. Even though he recognizes his apartment, there‘s something off about it. That’s all Adam manages to think before there are footsteps, and he jolts, another lighting bolt of panic rips through him before he can even register why.

 _“Fuck!”_ Adam yells, struggling briefly against the blankets, before he recognizes Lawrence in the doorway, looking only slightly disgruntled, with half the contents of his coffee cup now on the floor.

“Oh…” Adam exhales, as Lawrence disappears to the kitchen, getting paper towels. “Sorry.”

“It‘s fine.”

Adam doesn’t know what to say as Lawrence cleans the coffee of the floor, so he just looks at him. He‘s still not sure what‘s happening. The previous night is still in shadows, and he doesn’t really want to remember it.

Eventually, the coffee is off the floor, and Adam doesn’t have an excuse not to talk anymore. Lawrence sits down on the chair by the window, putting what‘s left of the coffee next to Adam on the bedside table. He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to get into a conversation, so they stay quiet for a bit longer.

“How are you feeling?” Lawrence asks eventually.

“I‘m not sure.”

Lawrence smiles wearily. Adam only really notices now how beat he looks.

“How long have you been here?” he asks, looking around the bedroom. “Fuck… how long was I out?”

“About a day and a half. I‘m not sure at what stage of it you called me, but… I came right away.”

Adam swallows. His throat feels like it’s lined with sand.

“Listen, I… Lawrence, thanks for…”

Lawrence shakes his head. Adam sees the faintest hint of a smile, in the midst of his very obvious weariness.

“It’s fine, Adam.”

“It’s really not, dude. I’ve been nothing but a piece of shit towards you, and you…”

Adam feels his words fading. He has no idea how to finish what he’s trying to say, even though he’s somehow sure Lawrence knows why that is. He’s a fuckup. It’s who he is.

Adam grabs the coffee cup Lawrence got him, notices that tremble on his hand.

“Did I call you?”

Lawrence nods. The faint smile is back.

“I wasn’t sure what you were trying to say, honestly. You were even more fucked up than usual. But I got that you were in trouble. You’d almost worked through that bottle of vodka by the time I got here.”

Adam groans, rubbing his forehead. Lawrence has the decency to not tell him anything more about what he did, but shame still swells inside him, burning right through his hangover.

He’s a fuckup. It’s all he is.

And still, for some goddamn reason, Lawrence came for him.

He has no idea what to do with that, so they sit in silence again.

xxxxxxxxx

To: Simon Landau (simplysimon@gmail.com)  
From: prof. Albert Flaubert (aflaubert@harvard.edu)  
Sent: 11/5/06 2:34:25 PM ESP  
Subject: Re: I’m back on my BS

Dear Simon,

I’ve read through your latest interview, and, while I guess I should be happy you’re happy, I’m sorry to say: nothing you presented by introducing this new subject is particularly revolutionary.

Don’t get me wrong; bringing this Gordon person into your research is interesting. But truth is, his reaction to all this is pretty, as you kids say, basic.

Survivor’s guilt is already well documented. The fact that he’s dealing with his trauma by drinking? You know as well as I do that everyone and their mother face difficulties by drinking. At least in America.

Your hypothesis (at least the latest one, you have a new one every time I see you) is about Gordon AND Faulkner. They went through this together. Are they coping together? If not, just write about that. I must say, right now, their trauma seems to have done nothing but isolate them. Which is to be expected, but also a pity. They seem to have a lot to learn from each other.

In short: don’t force an answer to this hypothesis. You can’t make these guys like each other.

I’ll see you for our next tutoring session.

Respectfully,

Professor Albert Flaubert

Harvard University


End file.
